All I Ask Is To Be Held

The War Affects Me Less Than It Ought. But I Can Do No Service To Anybody By Agitating For News Or Making Dole Over The Slaughter.

Do You Know What Would Hold Me Together On A Battlefield? The Sense That I Was Perpetuating The Language In Which Keats And The Rest Of Them Wrote!

Above All I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity.

The Centuries Will Burn Rich Loads With Which We Groaned, Whose Warmth Shall Lull Their Dreaming Lids, While Songs Are Crooned: But They Will Not Dream Of Us Poor Lads, Left In The Ground.

It Seemed That Out Of Battle I Escaped Down Some Profound Dull Tunnel, Long Since Scooped Through Granites Which Titanic Wars Had Groined.